Stranded
by Delwin
Summary: A couple of warp test flights in friendly space - of course, it's never quite that simple in the Delta Quadrant. Early season 7, P/T
1. I

**AN – **This piece insisted on being written despite the fact that I was tempted to throw it out the nearest airlock on several occasions. More than the usual thanks are due to **Photogirl1890** both for her wonderful-as-always beta and research assistance and for putting up with weeks of complaining about the state of this while it was a work in progress.

And, of course, all the usual disclaimers and apologies to The Powers That Be.

* * *

**Stranded**

I.

"You don't have to stay, you know."

B'Elanna's voice, coming from the main room of their living quarters, is muffled as she pulls on her uniform tank top. Catching sight of her in the bathroom mirror, Tom pauses his shaving, captivated, as always, by his wife's lithe figure.

"You're going to need someone on the bridge and a pilot for the test flights," he responds, grabbing a towel to dry his hair and face as he moves to the open door between the rooms.

B'Elanna snorts, none-too-delicately. "They're dilithium alignment tests: mid-level warp speeds. Straight line. Anyone could do it." Reaching into their closet, she pulls out her jacket. "Ayala could do it. He's been itching to get his hands on the helm more often."

Dropping the towel on the bed, Tom crosses the small distance between them and places hands on both of her shoulders. "But I want to do it."

While the majority of the crew, including the command team and most of the senior bridge officers, are taking some rare and much needed shore leave on the planet Yosia, B'Elanna and Seven have decided to take advantage of the near-empty ship as well as a large patch of friendly space to fine-tune the dilithium articulation frame in order to improve the efficiency of the plasma conversion – a process which, according to B'Elanna, will be significantly easier without the demands that a crew of a hundred and fifty regularly place upon the EPS network. A skeleton crew of engineers will be rotating back up to the ship to assist; Chakotay had set up a similar rotation for bridge duty before Tom offered to remain aboard for the duration of the tests.

B'Elanna raises a brow in disbelief. "You _want_ to sit on the bridge for hours on end while _Voyager_ is in orbit and then take her on a couple of straight shot there-and-back-again trips to the neighboring system? Didn't you used to volunteer for leola root gathering duty just to get out of assignments like this?"

Pulling a face at the unfortunate reference to his personal Delta Quadrant nemesis, Tom counters, "First of all, I did not volunteer. I was drafted. In violation of several Federation Charter articles, I might add. Not to mention I was then forced to eat the stuff, which is cruel and unusual punishment – hitting a few more of those articles." B'Elanna rolls her eyes at his whining and would have pulled away from his hold to continue dressing, but his practiced fingers find and begin to knead away points of tension in her neck and shoulders, causing her to relax back into his embrace. (_There are, after all, certain advantages to having over three years of intimate physical knowledge of one's mate._) Dropping his feigned petulance, Tom holds her gaze. "More importantly, that was before I had the inducement of a wife who would also be staying on board." His hands begin to work their way lower down her back and he bends his head for a lingering, promising kiss.

For a moment, he feels her giving in, both to the immediate suggestion that his hands and lips are making and to his plan to stay aboard, but then, groaning, she pulls slightly away. "Tom. I'll be working. A lot."

He's undeterred. "Even you can't work twenty-four hours a day." Denied her lips, his mouth moves down to those shoulders and collarbone, left enticingly bare by the uniform under-layer. How long do they have before their shifts start anyway?

"And when I'm not working, I'll be exhausted."

He catches sight of the chronometer out of the corner of his eye: thirty minutes. Breakfast is a highly overrated meal... "Then I'll take great pleasure in watching you sleep," Tom assures in a whisper, having worked his way back up her neck to her ear.

She sighs heavily as his hands now begin to undo what progress she previously made at getting dressed. "You're impossible." She does not, however, sound entirely displeased. Not at all displeased really.

"Yep. But you knew that before you married me."

.

By day two of his self-imposed exile on the bridge, Tom is willing to concede that B'Elanna has a point about the inherent drudgery of his task.

Yosia fills the viewscreen before him – a perfect blue and green orb hanging in space, its pristine atmosphere a testament to the advanced technological prowess of its inhabitants. Much like humans had on Earth, over the last couple of centuries, the Yosians developed the means to heal the environmental wounds that the early stages of industrial development so often leave upon worlds. Additionally, as on Earth, they worked to establish first a united planet and then, as their trans-light ships made their way to the neighboring systems, peaceful relations with several nearby sentient races and eventually an 'Interstellar Union', a political alliance not unlike a mini-Federation.

The result of their efforts is several parsecs of well-patrolled, friendly space: a rare luxury in the Delta Quadrant and one for which Tom is grateful. But it does make for spectacularly boring bridge shifts.

However, since his wife was, in fact, not _entirely_ exhausted the night before, he is far from ready to regret his decision to stay on board.

His left thumb strays to his ring finger, rubbing against the gold band there, an action that is quickly becoming an unconscious habit.

_"You're sure about this?"  
The air of the Delta Flyer is still electric from the residual ionization of overloaded conduits and consoles.  
"I wouldn't have asked if I wasn't sure."  
"It's just that..."  
"What?"  
"Well, I know this will sound odd since I've never been a big follower of Klingon customs and it's not something I would expect you to have considered before you asked. And obviously it might make a difference..."  
"B'Elanna." He stops her rambling by the best possible means before asking again, "What is it?"  
She looks down, biting at her lower lip, before meeting his eyes again and finishing in a rush, "Klingons mate for life. If we do this, you'd be stuck with me – possibly for a very long time."  
This he knows. Has known since she first bit into his cheek in those Sakari caves.  
"I wouldn't have it any other way."_

A ping from a routine altitude check pulls his attention away from the memory and back to Voyager's bridge.

Chronologically, it was almost six years since the first time he walked onto this bridge; by any other measure, it has been at least a lifetime. Tom Paris, Captain Janeway's hand-picked 'observer', was the ultimate outsider, replete in his chosen isolation. In all likelihood, he would never have made it to the bridge or even to _Voyager_'s airlock had he not somehow ended up with a spring green Ensign Harry Kim in tow (_...does Harry even realize how much Tom owes to him?_) Without rank or position, enjoying a brief respite from prison which was bought with his last shred of decency because he no longer really believed that decency existed...

...it had taken the sacrifice of a pip and a month to regain what he traded away in Auckland...and almost two more years to acknowledge that his own life was worth enough to offer to share it with another person...

'Contentment' was perhaps not something that the temporarily-probated Tom Paris of six years before might have considered a possibility – or even an aspiration. But contentment is what he has found – and Tom wouldn't trade the happiness that he feels sitting on this empty and uneventful bridge, looking forward to another evening alone with his wife, for any number of quasi-historic trans-warp test flights.

Besides, never let it be said that Tom Paris cannot entertain himself. The display of the conn station (Tom's preferred command seat while alone on the bridge) is currently divided between readings of _Voyager_'s steady and stable orbit, the half-finished next chapter of Captain Proton's adventures (_Proton Pursues the Pernicious Protopirates of Pluto_) and a just-conceived program that will allow him to display one of his holodeck 3-D movies on the main viewscreen of the bridge. The last he is hoping to finish by this evening – and then, with the proper persuasion, he _might_ be able to convince B'Elanna to come up for a look...which could possibly lead to a reenactment of their back-of-the-theater antics and some very pleasant memories to fill his solitary bridge vigil tomorrow...

Grinning at the possibility, Tom begins to work on configuring the comm speakers to the proper balance for that authentic twentieth century theater quality experience.

:_Seven of Nine to Lieutenant Paris_:

Seven's voice sounds slightly tinnier than usual and Tom quickly resets the speakers to the standard configuration before answering, "Paris here."

:_We are ready to begin the first test flight. Please stand by_:

"Already?" Tom asks, checking the time. "I thought we weren't scheduled for go until 1330."

:_Working without the distraction of the full crew has proven to be most efficient_: Seven's approval is evident. Given that that means B'Elanna will likely be done on time and with some energy to spare again tonight, Tom has to concur with the sentiment.

Shutting down the Proton and theater programs, Tom restores the helm to its usual functions. "Ready when you are. I'll keep an open comm line."

Phase Two of Operation Routine Test Flight is about to begin.

.

"For once, everything is actually going better than expected," B'Elanna gives Carey a smile of appreciation – even after six years a rarity for her within the confines of engineering – and hands back the PADD that outlines their progress.

Carey returns a wry smile of his own. "What is it that makes engineering chiefs such pessimists?"

Seven, returning from her call up to the bridge, raises an eyebrow. "Engineering is rarely the source of _Voyager_'s inefficiencies. It would have been reasonable to assume that with the rest of the crew off-ship, the realignment would progress rapidly."

B'Elanna looks at Carey, mouth slightly agape, and then back at Seven. "Was that a compliment to the engineering department, Seven?"

The former drone has already turned her attention to a nearby console, but a corner of her mouth quirks ever so slightly upward in response. Carey chuckles as he returns to his own workstation.

As her crew makes the final preparations for the test flight, B'Elanna takes a moment to survey the steady hum of activity taking place around her. Whether as well as should have been expected or better, the last two days have been...good. And not just in engineering.

Memories from the evening before intrude and she has to resist a rather silly grin which might threaten to ruin her reputation with her team permanently.

Yes, she is definitely glad that Tom decided to stay on board.

"Lieutenant Torres?" Nicoletti calls from the other side of the warp core. She and Mulcahey have just finished the final reconfiguration of the articulation frame. "The chamber hatch is secured and we are ready to go here."

"Right," B'Elanna nods back. "Are the impulse engines off-line?" In order to get a clear read on the efficiency of the conversion rates, feedback from the EPS grids powered by the impulse drive needs to be minimum; hence, the draw of completing these modifications with most of the crew on the planet below.

"They are," Carey confirms from the drive station where he is working with Tabor and Swinn. "We'll be running on warp drive only."

"Mendez, are the plasma conversion monitors set up?"

Mendez replies affirmatively, and B'Elanna taps into the comm line to the bridge. "Tom, you're ready there?"

:_Ready and waiting_:

B'Elanna looks over to Seven for one last check and, at her nod, opens a comm line to the planet's surface. "Torres to Janeway."

:_Janeway here. What's your status, B'Elanna?_:

"We're about to head out for the first test flight, Captain."

:_Sounds like everything is going well then._ _Bon voyage. And I look forward to hearing your results when you return. Janeway out_:

Closing the surface line, B'Elanna again calls up to the bridge. "Okay, Tom: take us out, starting at warp 2."

:_Yes, ma'am. Engaging warp drive_:

The subtle, steady vibrations from the core confirm his words. B'Elanna turns back to Mendez. "How are the conversion rates looking, Ensign?"

"Efficiency looks to be increased by just over three percent."

"As predicted," comes Seven's cool addition as she joins Mendez at his station.

"Okay, good," B'Elanna nods. "Tom, let's begin gradually increasing velocity up to warp 4.2."

:_Acknowledged. Increasing to warp factor 2.7_:

B'Elanna looks over at Seven and Mendez. "Conversion rates are holding steady," Mendez reports.

:_Now at warp factor 3.2_:

"Once speeds increase beyond warp factor 3.5, we should see an additional .5 percent increase in efficiency," Seven intones.

:_Warp factor 3.7_:

"Showing another .5 percent increase," Mendez confirms and then risks a grin and the slightest hint of mimicry as he looks over at his chief, "as predicted."

B'Elanna's brows climb and she is about to respond when she is thrown across the room as _Voyager_ slams suddenly – and definitely unpredictably – to a dead stop.


	2. II

II.

"What the hell just happened?"

Engineering is pitch black – or at least B'Elanna assumes it is. Otherwise something has happened to her vision, but, while there is plenty of pain shooting through various parts of her body (_broken wrist? And maybe a rib as well..._) from her collision with the nearest bulkhead and console, her head seems clear.

Added to that, she is floating. So either she is in the most unlikely version of _Gre'thor _imaginable or the artificial gravity is out as well.

_Damn, she hates zero g..._

"Seven? Mendez?" she calls out. "Let's get a head count, people."

One by one, her team reports in, some voices weaker and more obviously disorientated than others, but everyone is accounted for. Except, of course, for the member not in engineering. Best not to think about that right now.

Closing her eyes against the disorientation of being able to see absolutely nothing, B'Elanna tries to regain her bearings – something that would be significantly easier at floor level – and judge where the nearest emergency locker with wrist-lights might be. She hears movement nearby and then a click. "Seven?" she guesses.

"One moment," Seven responds, and then there is a sudden and too bright flash . "You are injured," the ex-drone observes as she pushes off a bulkhead to propel herself gracefully across the space between them, expertly bracing against the top of a nearby console to halt her momentum and handing B'Elanna one of the wrist-lights she has just collected.

"I'll live," B'Elanna replies shortly and, somewhat awkwardly with only one working hand, activates her own light. Playing it around the room, she sees her staff hanging onto various railings and bulkheads above the consoles at which they had been at work. At the heart of engineering sits the ominously darkened mass of the warp core.

_What the hell happened?_

One thing at a time... Nearby Mendez appears to be shaken but uninjured – and relatively comfortable with moving in zero-g. "Ensign, let's get wrist-lights distributed to everyone. Take a medical tricorder as well and check for any major injuries."

"Yes, ma'am," Mendez responds and pushes off a railing to retrieve the rest of the equipment from the locker.

B'Elanna turns back to Seven, ignoring the marked nausea that even that slight movement causes. "We need to get the emergency power online."

"I concur. However, it is unlikely that we will be able to re-engage the impulse drive without the warp core."

B'Elanna nods. "We'll need to get into the service chutes and activate the EPS power reserves manually." Unbidden, calculations as to how long those power reserves are likely to last once in use begin to formulate in her mind.

Seven, meanwhile, gives a significant look to B'Elanna's clearly disjointed left wrist. "I believe that I am currently better able to navigate the necessary access tubes."

Klingon physiology is uniquely suited to blocking out pain, but, once reminded of the injury, her wrist begins to throb menacingly. "Fine," B'Elanna returns with no little annoyance. "Take Tabor with you if he is uninjured. I don't want anyone working alone while the comm system is down."

Seven nods and pushes back off the console on her way to Tabor.

B'Elanna looks down at her wrist. The fingers of her left hand are beginning to swell. Gritting her teeth, she twists the gold band off her ring finger and moves it to her right hand. Swallowing hard, she propels herself over to the locker and searches the now free-floating contents for something to use to immobilize the wrist and, once gravity returns, to use as a sling. For the moment, she elects to ignore the stabbing pain in her side altogether.

"Lieutenant?" She turns as Mendez moves back from his rounds with Carey floating along behind him. "We've found wrist-lights for everyone. Lieutenant Nicoletti and Ensign Mulcahey both have mild concussions. All other injuries are minor." Mendez glances at her makeshift brace but evidently knows her well enough to refrain from comment.

Carey also gives her wrist a quick look before adding, "Swinn and Mulcahey are working on collecting and securing emergency floodlights."

"Good," B'Elanna responds with real relief at the relatively short casualty list. "Once Seven and Tabor get the power reserves up, we'll need to get both internal and external sensors online and figure out what's going on. We also need to get subspace communications up as soon as possible. Since we are supposedly in friendly space," ..._supposedly_..., "we should work on getting out a call for help."

"Subspace communications will be easiest to access from the bridge," Carey reminds her, unspoken understanding in his tone. The fourth and fifth fingers of her left hand rub together, probing the absence where her ring should be.

"Okay," she nods. "Sensors, life support – including artificial gravity – and internal comms so that we can contact the bridge. Those are our priorities. Reserves should be up within a few minutes: let's get teams organized for each of those systems." Carey nods and is about to follow up on the order when she adds, perhaps unnecessarily, "And remind everyone to keep power use as minimal as possible. We don't know how long we are going to need to run on the EPS reserves."

"Yes, ma'am," Carey acknowledges grimly and moves off with Mendez in his wake. At the very least, those orders will keep her team busy until Seven and Tabor have finished the power reserve activation. And B'Elanna long ago learned that, when in crisis, her people, like their chief, do best with a task in hand.

Bracing herself against the relative stability of the corner of the alcove, she stares blankly at the darkened warp core, the bulkheads disconcertingly still against her arms and back. _What the hell happened?_

_._

Task one had been obvious: find light.

That having been accomplished, deciding upon task two is taking Tom significantly more time.

His impulse, for more than one reason, is to make for engineering with all possible speed. His crew is there (...and despite the sudden lack of gravity, those two pips on his collar became much heavier the moment _Voyager _tumbled out of warp, transferring command back to the bridge and its sole officer...); as a medic, he knows that engineering, where the crew members are far more likely to be standing at consoles than sitting when any accident occurs, is always particularly prone to casualties.

And, his wife is down there.

As a pilot, however, he knows he needs to first ascertain what it is that _Voyager_ hit – and every instinct insists that it was, indeed, a collision that ripped the ship out of subspace – and ensure that another such encounter is not imminent.

For that, the best place to be is on the bridge.

Holding onto the helm station chair with one hand, he flashes his wrist-light across the blackened viewscreen, wondering, not for the first time, why the thing doesn't simply revert to transparency when power fails. Not that he would likely be able to visually detect whatever subspace phenomenon or gravimetric anomaly they just discovered the hard way, but there would be some comfort in knowing that there is at least nothing solid into which they are about to drift.

_If wishes were warp cores..._

Pushing off across the bridge to the ops station, he pulls himself hand over hand down to floor level and begins to remove the access panels that will allow him to get into the guts of the sensors and communications systems, all too aware as he does so of how poorly suited he is to the task. Poor Harry will no doubt have a heart attack when he sees the mess that his best friend is about to make of his station.

Knowing that the impulse drive has been shut down for the articulation frame tests, Tom is operating under the assumption that someone in engineering will be working to get the power reserves online. He begins rerouting sensors and communications to the main EPS lines, manually pulling less essential systems offline. Once power is available, they are going to want to use it sparingly.

Five minutes into his work, the conduits which he is busy rewiring come to life beneath his fingers. A couple minutes after that, gravity returns without warning. Fortunately, he is already working close to the floor; not so fortunately, the access panels which he carelessly left to float at will come clattering down with a vengeance on top of him.

Rubbing at his head and voicing a stream of invectives, he misses the first beep from op's internal communications panel. The second has him jumping to his feet – grunting a bit at the unexpected effort – and tapping the console to open the line.

The screen brightens to reveal Seven's somewhat quizzical stare. "Lieutenant Paris," she acknowledges. "Are you injured?"

"I'm fine," he responds. Then, "Is everyone all right down there?"

"Several of the crew suffered injuries but none are critical. Lieutenant Torres appears..."

"I'm fine," B'Elanna interrupts, appearing beside Seven on the small screen. Tom's relief upon seeing her is tempered as he notices the sling on her arm, but, taking his cue from Seven's raised brow, he saves the question for now. "You're okay?" she asks.

He nods. "Do we know what we hit?"

Seven's brow climbs further. "It would be inaccurate to describe..."

"A subspace distortion," B'Elanna cuts in. "We've been able to get the sensors back online and there appear to be at least a dozen similar distortions nearby. Here..."

Her attention is on the console before her for a few moments and then an image of the anomaly appears on screen beside the comm channel. Tom gives a low whistle. "They're huge."

B'Elanna nods. "But only a small portion of each is detectable with our normal sensor alignments – small enough that the navigational systems don't register them as a threat to the ship. Seven was able to tap into the sensors in astrometrics in order to get a more complete picture."

"Subspace icebergs," Tom intones.

Seven is about to respond, but B'Elanna stops her. "Tom, we need you to get external communications functioning up there so that we can call for help. Seven can walk you through it from here."

And damn it if those two pips don't suddenly feel like a major nuisance. With an internal sigh, Tom begins to frame his response before Seven's unflappable voice interrupts his thoughts: "I believe that, as Lieutenant Paris is now in command, giving a fuller situation report first would be the standard operating protocol for this vessel."

Or, one could just phrase it like that. ...if one happens to have a death wish. Or the emotional IQ unique to a former drone.

Tom watches with what he admits is a certain amount of fascination as his wife turns a look on Seven that would induce utter terror in a good portion of the crew. The other woman merely reciprocates with a cool stare of her own. Tom waits, knowing that his silence will be taken – correctly, in this case – as acquiescence and that the same glare will soon be turned on him.

And, indeed, there it is.

Wishing with every fiber of his being that they were not doing this over an open comm line with Seven and gods know who else listening in, Tom closes his eyes for the briefest of moments before stating as calmly and reasonably as humanly possible, "B'Elanna, I need to know what's going on."

Even with the relatively low resolution of the comm screen in its power save mode, he can see her muscles coiled with tension and he knows that her uninjured hand likely has a death grip on the edge of the console. "Fine," she finally growls. "You want a situation report? The warp core was knocked offline by the massive cochrane distortions when we ran into your 'subspace iceberg'. Without the warp core, we have no way to reinitialize the impulse drive and, without the impulse drive, we're running on the EPS reserves alone."

Ignoring her tone and her anger, he asks, "How long do we have?"

"Running minimal life-support, comms and sensors, we have maybe ten hours." Her glare intensifies and he reads the unsaid, _So why the hell are we still here talking about this?_

Tom presses on nonetheless. "Can we evacuate to the shuttles?"

"That would be inadvisable." This time the response is Seven's. "The standard shuttles do not have the sensor technology necessary for detecting the subspace distortions; nor do they have the shield strength or structural integrity to withstand even a brief encounter with the phenomena."

The _Delta Flyer_ likely would be a different story, Tom knows, but the _Flyer _was left behind on Yosia to shuttle crew members as needed.

"We could, however, transfer the reserve EPS power from the shuttles to _Voyager_'s main grid," B'Elanna muses, her voice calmer as she considers the possibility. "I can send Tabor and Swinn down to the shuttle bays to work on that. It may buy us an extra hour or two of power."

Tom nods. "Do it. And have them collect the EVA suits from the shuttles while they're down there. We can prep them as a last resort."

"Good idea," B'Elanna concedes. "But we are still going to need help – and soon."

"Hence the external communications," Tom agrees. "I can work on those up here with Seven's help, provided no one down there is in need of more immediate medical attention."

Seven and B'Elanna exchange a look. "Actually, I think that may be one issue that we have at least a temporary solution for," B'Elanna offers. "Remember before the Doctor acquired his mobile emitter when Harry and I tried to rig holoprojectors in key areas of the ship?"

"Not entirely successfully, if I remember," Tom replies, recalling Harry's rants on the finicky nature of holotechnology at the time.

B'Elanna shrugs. "It was largely an issue of other projects taking priority, and then, once we had the emitter, it became a non-issue."

"I believe that I can finish Lieutenant Torres and Ensign Kim's work on the projectors and initialize one of the backups of the EMH program while I am 'walking you through' the communications repairs," Seven interrupts. "It will be a less refined version of the EMH program than the Doctor, but it should serve our current needs."

Tom frowns. "Won't that further drain our power?"

"Actually, no," B'Elanna responds. "We were working on those projectors before we figured out how to integrate the holosystems into the main power grid. They have an independent reserve." She shrugs again. "It's free energy: we might as well use it."

"Fair enough," Tom agrees. "Seven, why don't you brief Tabor and Swinn on pulling the reserve power from the shuttles and then we'll get started with the subspace comms."

Seven looks ready to object at the inefficiency of that plan but then appears to decide the better of it. She nods and moves away, giving Tom his minute alone with his wife.

"Sorry you stayed aboard yet?" B'Elanna quips softly once Seven is out of earshot, her anger temporarily abated.

Allowing himself the moment, Tom touches the screen gently. "Do you even really need to ask?"

_I'm glad the last thing I'll see is you._

Three years ago, he had thought those words meant so much...

B'Elanna gives him _that_ smile – the one that inevitably makes him wonder what he ever did to deserve her. "I guess not."

"I'll call in the cavalry," he assures her.

"And I'll make sure we're still waiting when they arrive," she replies, still smiling.

And, with that, they both turn back to the work of saving their ship.


	3. III

III.

So much for shore leave...

Yosian central command is a flurry of activity when Kathryn arrives. When the First Minister's comm came through, she and Tuvok, who had been taking the rare leisure opportunity to attend a scientific symposium together on one of Yosia's outer moons, immediately shuttled back to the planet on the _Flyer_.

"Captain Janeway!" the First Minister calls to her from across the crowded room, moving quickly in her direction. Her distinctive Yosian ear tips, which extend almost to the length of antennae, are drooping in obvious distress and worry. "Words cannot express my regret that your vessel has been caught up in this unfortunate incident. Had we any idea that this might happen, you can be assured..."

Seeking to gently cut off what promises to be a long-winded apology, Kathryn lightly places a hand on the other woman's forearm. "Please, First Minister – regrets are unnecessary. But an explanation of what's going on would be most helpful. Our understanding is that the area of space which _Voyager_ was to transverse was a standard shipping lane that was regularly in use."

"Indeed, it is. The Olian Passage is one of the most frequently traveled regions of Union space," the First Minister assures her, nodding to include Tuvok in her comment as well. "In fact, three of our ships are now caught in the same sector of space as well as two of our allies' vessels."

"Perhaps if you could explain..." Tuvok begins before the First Minister interrupts, "Yes, of course. My apologies again. Rennon?" she beckons to a harried looking young man monitoring a nearby screen. With one last glance at the data before him, Rennon moves over to join them. "Could you explain to our guests the nature of the Olian Rifts?"

"Certainly, First Minister," Rennon nods, and, turning to Kathryn and Tuvok, motions them to a nearby computer, calling up an image of what looks like a jagged hole in what is apparently a subspace matrix. "The Olian Rifts are fissures that form in subspace. They create a phase fluctuation which interferes with the fields created by our ships' faster-than-light engines." Rennon's ear tips droop sadly as he adds, "And apparently your ship's as well. The rifts effectively act as barriers, making faster-than-light travel through the region nearly impossible. And, because only this area of each anomaly," an area encompassing perhaps two percent of the fissure is highlighted on the screen, "is detectable by most ship's sensors, vessels often do not register the presence of the rifts until it is too late."

Kathryn glances back at Tuvok's raised brow before asking their shared question: "But I thought that this area of space was frequently traveled? How is that possible with the presence of the rifts?"

Rennon's ear tips began to rapidly change color – in confusion or as a sign of some emotion, Kathryn can't be sure. "The first recorded occurrence of the Olian Rifts was over two centuries ago, soon after we developed the capability of traveling faster than light. Ever since that time, their appearance has been regular and predictable, occurring every twenty-four of our planetary years and lasting for approximately two seasons. During this predicted window, our vessels and our allies' vessels simply take a longer route to avoid the Olian Passage until the rifts dissipate."

"Are we to understand that the current recurrence of the rifts was not predicted?" Tuvok questions.

The pulse of colors at the top of Rennon's ears intensifies and Kathryn decides that it indeed indicates a mixture of confusion and frustration. "They shouldn't have reoccurred for another decade," the scientist laments.

Something clicks in the back of Kathryn's mind, but she pushes it away for the moment, focusing on more immediate concerns. She turns back to the First Minister. "You said that there are currently six ships caught in this area of space, including _Voyager_?" At the First Minister's nod, she continues, "Have any of them been able to make contact?"

The First Minister nods again. "Two of our own vessels have been able to report back in. Their engines were disabled by their encounters with the rifts, but they are otherwise undamaged. We have been able to triangulate the likely positions of the other ships, including your _Voyager. _We are currently prepping rescue ships to aid all six."

"Have you been able to equip these rescue ships to travel safely through the Olian Passage?" Tuvok queries.

"They are specially designed with advanced sensors and shields to detect and provide some protection from the rifts, yes," the First Minister assures. "They go largely unused between the rift's appearances and so must be prepared but should be ready to depart within the hour."

Kathryn glances over at Tuvok, who nods. "I would like to take a team of my people on the _Delta Flyer_ and accompany your rescue vessels. The _Flyer_ should be adequately equipped to navigate the Passage if you would be willing to share your data on the rifts with us."

"Of course," the First Minister agrees.

"First Minister?" Another official interrupts, approaching rapidly. "We are receiving a communication from the _Voyager_."

Kathryn looks sharply up at the First Minister who gestures graciously to a communications station. An instant later, a rather static-ridden image of Tom Paris fills the screen.

"Captain!" he greets her while making some adjustments on his end to clear up the signal. "You don't know how good it is to see you."

"The feeling is mutual, Lieutenant," she assures him. "How's everyone there?"

"We have some bumps and bruises but nothing critical. Seven and B'Elanna have set us up with a temporary EMH to deal with any immediate issues."

Kathryn exchanges another look with Tuvok at that but doesn't press for more information for the moment. "How is _Voyager_?"

"Dead in the water, Captain," is Tom's succinct reply. "Our impulse drive was powered down for the articulation tests and our warp drive was knocked offline when we encountered a subspace phenomenon..."

"The Olian Rifts are what the Yosians call them," Kathryn supplies.

That catches Tom's full attention. "They knew about these things?" She's surprised to hear the sudden anger in the usually easy-going pilot's tone. She holds up a hand, forestalling whatever might be coming next. "It's a long story, Tom, but they had good reason not to expect the rifts to occur again for another decade. They had no ill-intent in not sharing their knowledge of the phenomenon with us."

This seems to appease Tom somewhat but his expression remains fairly unreadable, reminding Kathryn suddenly very much of the elder Paris of her acquaintance. He swallows his remaining anger though as he continues with his report. "Right. So we are running life support and other necessary systems on EPS power reserves alone. B'Elanna estimates that they will last ten hours. We are adding the reserves from the shuttles we have on board which should give us another hour or two." His expression hardens further into grimness. "After that, we're down to EVA suits."

"With any luck, you shouldn't have to get that far," Kathryn assures him. "We'll be leaving within the hour with the _Delta Flyer_ and several of the Yosian ships specially configured for dealing with the rifts." She checks the coordinates from which the comm signal originated. "At full impulse, we should be able to reach your position in slightly more than ten hours."

Despite the confidence that she puts into her tone, the numbers speak for themselves and that '_should_' is more weighted than either would like. Kathryn finds and holds her pilot's eyes. "We'll do what we need to in order to get to you in plenty of time, Tom. Keep them safe until we do."

Something more sparks in Tom's eyes as he replies, "Aye, Captain," and then signs off.

Drawing a deep breath, Kathryn turns back to Tuvok. "Let's get a team together to man the _Flyer_. I want to be ready to leave as soon as the Yosian ships are prepped."

.

Having accomplished what could be done on the bridge, Tom begins to make his way down to engineering. On the way, he stops in the mess hall for a supply of emergency rations and in sickbay for warming blankets and a small stockpile of emergency medical supplies. Minimal life-support means that the ambient temperature has already fallen dramatically and, thanks to the Doc's meticulous training, he knows that hypothermia will become a potentially fatal threat long before the ship runs out of breathable air.

For as many times over the last several years as he's navigated _Voyager_'s corridors and access tubes by the illumination of a wrist-light after one disaster or another has struck, this passage feels particularly unsettling. With the warp core and the impulse drive both silenced and the usual crew complement of a hundred and fifty reduced to the eight in engineering and himself, the ship is deathly quiet.

At the same time, the lives of those eight crew members who are on board are weighing on him more and more heavily.

Not for the first time, he wonders what the hell his superiors were thinking when they first pinned a second pip on the collar of his twenty-two year old self. It had been done with all proper formality but also with a level of perfunctoriness: he was a Paris, he had been actively serving for the minimum required number of months and, thus, the promotion was universally expected. Including by the recipient himself.

Tom had taken his early command experiences in stride, drawing from a lifetime of watching the mannerisms of commanders, captains and admirals and throwing in a touch of his own not inconsiderable personal charm. And the various ensigns and crewmen and women serving on his away teams and shuttle missions responded to the combination of confidence and ease favorably, even those who were initially skeptical of the fast-rising son of an admiral...

...until Caldik Prime...

When three years later, Kathryn Janeway had handed him back that pip along with its companion, he had initially tried to imitate his early confidence with much less successful results. His audience had changed. He had changed. And, for a Starfleet crew alone in the Delta Quadrant, the rules had changed.

At Banea, his decisions had led to Harry's two day detention and interrogation and his own near-brush with madness. Two months later, he had lost Durst while the lieutenant was under his command (_...and come damn near to losing B'Elanna as well..._)

Slowly, and all too often painfully, Tom had grown up until, at Monea, he had re-found something that he had almost forgotten that he had lost and, in the act that lost him his rank, had possibly finally grown into it.

Opportunities for command over the last year and half had been sparse. Partially as a consequence of his lost lieutenancy and partially due to the larger complement for which the _Delta Flyer_ allowed, he was rarely the senior officer on any away team. At the same time, whether by the Captain's choice or happenstance, the bridge seldom fell into his hands.

And, oddly and utterly unexpectedly, he found himself missing...something. Not the power, exactly, but the agency – and the ability to protect those he cared about.

Now, with that second pip back on his collar, _Voyager_ and her small crew are suddenly his – to command and to protect. And, as heavy as that responsibility is, for perhaps the first time Tom feels like he is fully prepared to embrace it.

From the darkness and silence of the corridors, walking into engineering feels like entering a beehive of activity. Strategically placed floodlights show the small staff working at various stations, no doubt doing whatever can be done to extend the power reserves as long as possible. On the far side of the room, Tom catches a glimpse of B'Elanna consulting with Sue Nicoletti and Ensign Mulcahey. To one side of the group is the familiar form of an Emergency Medical Hologram, a perhaps even more familiar look of annoyance on his holographically projected visage.

"Lieutenant Paris," Seven greets him as she climbs down the access ladder from the upper workstations. She crosses the floor and begins to help him unload the supplies that he gathered on his way.

"How are things going down here?" Tom asks.

Seven considers her answer. "Acceptably," she decides. "Ensigns Tabor and Swinn were able to transfer the reserve energy from the shuttles effectively. Between those additional resources and the power preservation efforts the rest of the crew have made, we should be able to continue to run essential systems for an additional two hours beyond Lieutenant Torres's original estimate."

Tom nods. "If all goes well, our rescue party should arrive before then..."

"...that this is most irregular, Lieutenant. I really must insist..." The EMH's irked and irksome voice echoes across engineering breaking into his thoughts. Both Seven and Tom look up to see the hologram, tricorder in hand, trailing after B'Elanna.

"And how is our temporary Doctor?" Tom queries.

"Efficient if abrasive," is Seven's succinct answer.

Tom chuckles. "Missing our Doc's social skills, Seven?"

Seven's eyebrow arches. "While the Doctor's non-medical pursuits often seem superfluous, it is possible that they have had a positive effect on his ability to successfully interact with the crew." Then she follows the EMH's progress – or lack thereof – with B'Elanna for a moment. "Given the obvious limits of the original program in that regard, I can see why the Captain encouraged the Doctor to expand his programming – despite the inefficiencies it might produce."

Tom feels his own eyebrows climbing upwards. "Really? Despite the inefficiencies, huh?"

Seven appears to choose to ignore the implications of his comment. She nods towards the back-up hologram. "Given its limitations, I believe that this EMH program may need your assistance in convincing Lieutenant Torres to accept medical treatment. She has refused all aid and her injury, while not severe, may lead to complications if not attended to soon."

Tom's lips thin, his amusement gone. He tracks the pair for a minute before nodding to Seven. "Right. Thanks." And, taking a deep breath, he prepares to brave the lion's den.

.

"I assure you that the procedure will only take a few minutes..."

"No!" she growls for at least the dozenth time, not bothering to turn as she pauses to grab her toolkit before heading across engineering towards yet another access panel and circuits which can be manually pulled to buy them all a few more minutes of life-support.

Not that use of her second arm and hand wouldn't be useful and – as Seven would and has reminded her – more efficient, but, at this point, staying busy and moving is the only thing that is allowing B'Elanna to keep her blackening temper somewhat in check and the thought of even a short break to allow the back-up hologram to tend to her arm threatens to push her over the edge.

She jumps as, thoughts and eyes elsewhere, she almost runs headlong into her husband. "Tom!" she exclaims, feeling oddly disconcerted. "I didn't see you come in."

"You've been busy," he responds with understanding. However, there is an edge to his voice as well and his eyes travel down to her arm.

She nods. "We've been able to pull enough conduits manually to gain another half-hour of life-support. That combined with the energy from the shuttles should buy us another two hours total." She's not sure if she's giving a status report or just trying to distract his attention from her injury. But there is something about his expression that she can't entirely read and she's finding that unsettling.

He gives a nod of his own, but his tone is too carefully neutral. "Sounds like good progress. Now how about taking a short break and letting the EMH deal with your wrist?"

A spike of annoyance shoots through her and she shakes her head. "It's a sprain or a minor break at worst. I can handle it," she insists.

Tom looks past her at the EMH, raising an eyebrow in question. "Doctor?"

"Lieutenant Torres's left wrist suffered a distal radius fracture. As well, my readings indicate that her seventh rib on the same side is broken, with the fragments pushing dangerously close to her third lung. Both injuries require treatment, but the fractured rib runs the risk of serious complication if not addressed soon," the EMH supplies with more than evident pleasure at finally having his opinion sought.

"B'Elanna..."

She cuts him off, moving to push past him. "I said I can handle it," she growls.

"B'Elanna." Tom reaches out and catches her right arm as she tries to brush past. She glares up at him, her anger and frustration – with him, with the EMH, but mostly with herself (_her failed engines; her dying ship_) – boiling over. "You need to let the EMH treat you." Maddeningly, he keeps his voice quiet, controlled.

Her gaze is locked with his, but she knows all too well that engineering has come to a standstill around them.

"Is that an order?" she spits back.

"If it needs to be."

His voice has become even more quiet, barely above a whisper, but his words stop her short. Once again, she is conscious of eight pairs of eyes upon them, eyes watching not just Tom and B'Elanna fighting – a not entirely uncommon sight – but a dispute between the two senior officers of the ship.

And the expression on Tom's face makes it clear that he knows all that as well. He waits quietly, making his case only with that gaze, waiting for the next move which needs to be hers.

_What the hell is she doing?_

She takes a deep breath, just managing not to wince at the pain that that elicits, fighting back against her darker impulses.

"Fine," she finally hisses. And then, "You know you're impossible."

His grip on her arm tightens as those damnable blue eyes fill with almost overwhelming amounts of gratitude and love. His smile is soft and only for her and she wonders when it became possible to say so much with so few words. "Yep. But you knew that already," and his tone echoes everything in those eyes.

After a long moment, Tom nods to the EMH who motions primly to the nearest chair. With an exaggerated sigh, she sits as he pulls out the osteo-regenerator and, around her, engineering begins to move again.

Which reminds her that she does still have something of an image to maintain. She turns back to Tom. "Grab a toolkit, flyboy. If I can't do the work, I'll just have to try to walk you through it."

With a grin of relief and more than a little promise – _and, oh yes, he does indeed owe her for this one_ – Tom picks up her abandoned kit and throws her a jaunty salute. "Aye, aye, Chief. Always happy to lend my talents where needed."

Rolling her eyes at her husband, she resigns herself to the back-up EMH's less-than-tender mercies.


	4. IV

IV.

The unmistakeable aroma emanating from the steaming mug that is placed beside her right hand pulls Kathryn's attention from the screen in front of her.

"Vulcan spice tea," she comments with a smile, lifting the tea and inhaling deeply. "Did I look in need of some counsel, Tuvok?" she teases gently, sipping at the beverage.

"You did appear to be preoccupied by your studies of the Olian Rifts and not pleasantly so," Tuvok admits and, at her gesture, takes the seat next to her at the science console of the _Delta Flyer_'s lower deck.

She sighs, rubbing at her temples with the fingers of her free hand. "I've been over the data that Rennon and the First Minister gave to us a dozen times looking for some other explanation, but the similarities are unmistakeable."

"You are hypothesizing that the frequent warp traffic through the passage is causing instabilities similar to those created in the Alpha Quadrant's Hekaras Corridor?"

Kathryn nods, indicating the screen in front of her. "It seems likely that the rifts were originally a natural phenomenon but, yes, their sudden, unexpected appearance is almost certainly the result of the steadily increasing frequency of interstellar travel through the Passage. The subspace distortions from the engines of the Yosians and their allies are slowly tearing subspace apart in the region. In all likelihood, if the traffic remains at its current rates, the occurrence of the rifts will become more and more frequent until they are permanent."

Tuvok raises an eyebrow. "The Yosians will, no doubt, be less than pleased with those conclusions."

Taking another sip of her tea, Kathryn gives a wry smile. "We finally encounter a truly friendly race of people, with aspirations so similar to our own, and, in return for their hospitality, we offer them news that they must virtually abandon one of their key shipping routes." She sighs wearily. "For once, I would just like a first contact that was...uneventful."

Tuvok is about to respond when Culhane's voice interrupts via comm from the _Flyer_'s bridge. :_Captain? Lieutenant Paris is hailing from _Voyager:

"Thank you, Ensign. Patch him through down here," Kathryn responds, setting down her tea and sitting forward.

This time, Seven and B'Elanna appear with Tom on the small screen – Tom and B'Elanna both clearly showing the toll of the last few hours; Seven looking as composed as always. Kathryn greets them briefly and asks for a status report.

"We've done everything possible to extend our power reserves, Captain," B'Elanna responds. "At this point, we have about two hours of minimal life-support with comms on standby."

"We've shut down sensors since we have no way to deal with any potential threat that they might detect anyway," Tom adds, his discomfort with the decision clear.

Kathryn nods, checking the_ Flyer_'s progress. "We should still arrive at your position with time to spare. Our current ETA puts us there within ninety minutes."

"At this point, our most efficient course of action," here Tom glances back at Seven, "would seem to be to do nothing."

"Any further exertions by the crew will simply use up breathable atmosphere more quickly without positively affecting the reserve power remaining," Seven clarifies coolly.

Even across the comm line, B'Elanna's visceral reaction to the idea of doing nothing while her ship slowly dies around her is obvious; nonetheless she nods grimly in agreement with Seven's assessment. For the most part, Tom's expression rivals Seven's for impassivity, but the tightness of his jaw suggests that he's no more comfortable with the idea of simple waiting around than is B'Elanna. Kathryn has abundant sympathy for both of her officers.

"You've done what you can," Kathryn assures them. "We'll take it from here. We'll comm you when we arrive." And then, with one final nod to each of them, she signs off.

Full impulse has never felt so slow.

.

Having resumed his medic duties a half-hour earlier when the holoprojector reserves ran out, Tom returns from one final check on each crew member, medical tricorder still in hand. He lowers himself down beside B'Elanna, careful to sit on her right side away from her still healing left wrist and rib, and she throws that half of the blanket over him, inviting the long arm that wraps around her. They might be sitting on the floor of engineering, but it's damn cold and besides, with the power cells of the floodlights and about half of the wrist-lights depleted and emergency lights set at minimum, no one can see them anyway.

"Everyone okay?" she asks, following with her eyes the path from huddled group to huddled group that Tom just walked. It's impossible to pick out individuals amongst the dark masses.

"For now, yes. Nicoletti and Swinn both have symptoms of mild hypothermia, but Seven and Mendez are keeping an eye on them in case we need to break out the environmental suits."

She nods, knowing that the check he has just finished has been as much about offering a calming presence and emotional reassurance as checking physical well-being, but, if there was anything else she needed to know about, Tom would tell her. "You know you're good at this, right?"

"Being a part-time medic?"

"No. Yes," she amends and then clarifies: "Taking care of a crew. Command. You're good at it."

In the darkness, she feels rather than sees him flinch. "Look, about before..." he begins.

"You were right," she quickly cuts him off. "If I hadn't been in such a foul mood already, I would have seen that from the beginning."

He shifts awkwardly against her and she knows that he isn't going to take the easy out she's just offered. "But it wasn't about me being right."

She's quiet for a moment and then concedes, "No, it wasn't."

He tightens his hold around her and she turns to face him, trying to read his expression in the dim light. "Do you think we can do this?" he asks.

"Do what?" She's pretty sure that she knows but needs to hear him articulate it.

"Be married. And be senior officers on the same ship." He fingers his collar. "With this pip back...issues...may – will probably – come up more frequently."

The last part remains unvoiced: _Can you serve under my command when needed?_

She doesn't answer immediately, contemplating the question from its many angles. It's a question – maybe _the_ question – that they've been able to skirt until now.

Or have they? How many times has she trusted Tom's judgment and his instincts in critical situations – even before she fully trusted him as a person? How often has one of them conceded the lead of a mission to the other, based on the particular expertise of each?

This isn't quite the same as she very well knows, but her answer, when it finally comes, is surprisingly simple. "I think we can, yes."

Tom relaxes against her then, accepting her assurance at least for now. But she gives him a curious look. "What would we have done if the answer was 'no' anyway?"

He gives her a smile and shrugs, his answer as simple as her own: "I seem to have a talent for losing pips. It probably wouldn't have been that hard to get rid of another one or two again."

"You're serious?" She stares at him, taken aback.

He shrugs again, fingering his collar. "I probably would be less colorful about it this time around. People have been known to simply resign commissions, you know. But, if nothing else, the life story of Tom Paris shows that these things can definitely be less than permanent." Then, he pulls his left hand up from around her and out from under the blanket so that they both can contemplate the gold ring there. "This, on the other hand, I've been told is here to stay."

Not that she ever really doubted that Tom had taken their vows seriously, but something in his simple statement leaves B'Elanna speechless. Wishing that they were somewhere, anywhere other than sitting on the floor of engineering in order to give a better, fuller response, she finally settles for lightly teasing, "Well, I'm rather glad that you'll be keeping both."

"You know, so am I," and there is no little surprise in Tom's voice. B'Elanna shifts her head slightly to look up at him and sees his eyes still on his ring. "I've always been terrified of it, you know."

"Command? Or marriage?" she asks.

"The combination." His thoughts have clearly wandered a quadrant away. "Dad didn't do so well with it – the combination."

"Were they unhappy? Your parents?"

He considers the question. "Not unhappy exactly. It was just always clear that duty came first. That could have been Dad's personal motto: 'Duty comes first.'" He frowns, still contemplating the gold band around his finger. "I'm not sure how Mom put up with it."

"Maybe she knew that about him and accepted it before they married," B'Elanna suggests quietly. Tom seldom speaks about his family – even more rarely about his mother.

"Maybe," Tom concedes, pulling his gaze and his attention back to her. "Anyway, even as a kid, I knew that wasn't that sort of husband that I wanted to be – or the kind of marriage I wanted to have."

"You're not and it's not," B'Elanna assures him, surprising herself with the fierceness of her response.

"I know," he agrees. And then, he's quiet for a moment before continuing, "It's beginning to make me reconsider if I might even pull off being a decent father." His pause is now deliberate before he adds carefully, "What about you? Have you thought about it?"

Reflexively, she snorts. "Having a child? You know I didn't exactly have the best role models for parenting on either side."

Tom gives an equally reflexive smile at that, shifting his gaze down and away from her, and she knows that he'll leave it there if she wants him to. They've been at this careful dance of exorcizing each other's demons for long enough that each knows when to take a step back. However, she finds that, unexpectedly, that's not what she wants right now. Before she has a chance to change her mind, she rushes on, "Still, I have been thinking about what your child...our child... might be like."

Turning back to her, the corner of his mouth curls up and his eyes spark despite the low lighting. "She – or he – would have a hell of a temper," he teases.

Unable to stop herself, she grins in response and cocks her head to the side. "And a definite talent for getting into trouble."

Tom's brows raise. "Sounds like someone I'd like to meet."

And because she realizes it is one more simple truth even if saying the words feels like the equivalent to leaping from a cliff into unknown waters, she answers, "Me too."

Somewhere, a comm panel beeps for attention, but neither of them react. It takes Seven's strident, "Lieutenant Paris?" before they register the meaning behind the sound and even then B'Elanna knows that Tom is sorely tempted to tell Seven to acknowledge the cavalry's arrival.

"Go," she urges, pushing him gently up. "You're in command. It should be you."

He nods and stands, squeezing her good hand before moving to open the channel.


	5. V

V.

"A beautiful woman should never have to eat – or drink – alone."

B'Elanna groans in response but accepts the newly replicated coffee that Tom hands her eagerly enough as he sits down across from her at the mess hall table. "I should have known to pitch you out the airlock the first time you used that line on me."

Tom just winks at her and drawls, "But think of all the fun you would have missed!" Then he asks, "Did they finally kick you out of engineering?"

She shrugs, sipping at the coffee. "We've reattached all of the systems that we pulled to conserve power, and there isn't much else to do until we get out of the Olian Passage and can reinitialize the warp core – and that shouldn't be for a few hours yet. Vorik came in on the _Flyer_ so he's babysitting down there."

"Have you considered getting some sleep?" It's less a suggestion than an honest query and is met with another shrug and a glance at the PADD she was reading when he walked in.

"I'll try in a bit. I was still feeling too edgy."

He looks over at the PADD as well. "Engineering reports?"

"Not quite." Self-consciously, B'Elanna picks back up the PADD, further piquing his interest.

"Romance novel?"

"No," she sighs and then hands the device over. "Here. See for yourself."

"_Comparative_ _Studies on the Feasibility of Interspecies Conception._" Tom looks back up at his wife, unable to hold back his delighted grin.

Flustered, she directs most of her attention at her coffee. "I just wanted to check the odds. You know, just in case we decided...or that it mattered...at some point or other..."

"So what do they look like?" he interrupts. "The odds?"

"Long," she admits, surprising both of them with the regret in her voice.

Tom only grins more broadly. "I can think of a few good ways to start evening them up..."

They are interrupted by the hiss of the mess hall doors as Seven enters.

"Lieutenants Torres and Paris," Seven greets them. "May I join you?"

Tom and B'Elanna exchange a glance before Tom responds gamely, "Of course." He gestures to an open chair but Seven remains standing.

"I wanted to speak with you about the nature of your collective."

Tom blinks. "Our what?"

"Your collective. Your marriage."

Across the table, B'Elanna begins to bristle and Tom holds up a warning hand. "Seven, if this a continuation of your earlier 'research'..."

"It is not." It's less reassurance than simple statement. "My previous interest was limited to the nature of your sexual relationship. My current inquiry concerns the nature of the link that you have formed with one another."

This time, they both blink.

Unconcerned, Seven continues on: "When you first chose to formalize your relationship in a 'marriage', I considered the process to be redundant and pointless given the already monogamous nature of your sexual activity."

Tom clears his throat, but B'Elanna's foot against his leg stops him from interrupting. He looks over at her and is surprised to see real curiosity about where Seven is going with all this.

"However," the former drone presses on, "the last two days have made me reconsider that opinion." She tilts her head toward one and then the other in the manner of a professor seeking a not-entirely-deficient pupil. "Your marriage: you consider it to be a permanent arrangement?"

With one more glance in B'Elanna's direction, Tom offers, "Well, yes."

Seven nods, part of her theory clearly confirmed. "From my observations, I believe that permanency has contributed to the overall efficiency of your relationship." She pauses and raises an (could that be approving?) eyebrow at them. "It is an intriguing result and worth further observation and study. " Then, she gives each a slight nod before heading back out the way she came.

B'Elanna's amazed expression as she stares after Seven, Tom is fairly sure, mirrors his own. "Did we just get Seven's blessing on our marriage?" he asks.

His wife turns back to catch his eyes, raising her brows. "Speaking of long odds..." and she shakes her head in disbelief as she sips at the coffee and looks back out at the passing stars.

Tom follows her gaze and a new thought occurs to him. "So, are you planning on heading out in the other direction to finish those warp tests after we drop the Captain and Tuvok off back up on Yosia?"

B'Elanna turns back and stares at him. "You can't be serious."

Tom shrugs. "I heard that their symposium was continuing for another week. And now the Captain has her findings on the Olian Rifts to present to The Powers That Be on Yosia." Then he throws just a hint of mischief into his tone. "And I was looking forward to manning the bridge again."

Her brows climb. "Getting power hungry on me already, Lieutenant?" She takes a sip of her coffee and then adds with a lopsided grin. "If you are, you'll have Harry to contend with for those popular late night bridge shifts."

"Not so much that, exactly." He leans in across the table towards her. "There's a program I was working on while I was up on the bridge..."

She snorts derisively. "Further adventures of Captain Proton?"

"No!" he voices offended, then amends, "Well, yes, that too. But this one was a special program for the bridge. For time _alone_ on the bridge."

"Alone?" she questions, starting to catch on.

"Well, not entirely alone." The mischief in his tone has morphed into something else entirely.

"Would you need some...select company to fully enjoy this program?" Her voice is velvet, somewhere between a purr and a growl as she leans in toward him as well.

"Are you offering?" he gamely tries to counter, but there is a catch in his voice and he knows – they both know – that she has the upper hand in this round.

She pulls back, fully recovered left arm now on the back of her chair, deliberately teasing. Finding the coffee mug with her right hand, she takes a long drink before answering matter-of-factly, "I'll see what I can do about rescheduling those test flights."

There are absolutely no words for how much he loves this woman. "Your pilot will be ready and willing to serve," he promises.

And the prospect of another few days stuck on the bridge with (almost) nothing to do has never sounded so utterly, irresistibly appealing to Tom Paris.


End file.
